A Flame in the North, page 7
Such was the custom, and even Eril the Battle-Mad obeyed it. Soon after his hurried departure we were shaken awake by a whey-pale Albeig, who narrowly avoided a clout from Arneior for her pains.
My shieldmaid’s temper is fierce indeed when her rest is disturbed.
My mother, however, was arisen and fully dressed, and it was she who greeted the Northerners formally in the greathall while Astrid hurriedly braided my hair and Bjorn, half-dressed and wild-rumpled, burst into the women’s quarters to find me. Ulfrica was too busy to hiss at first, though he garnered a fair share of slaps and kicks, not to mention a sharp couplet upon his incompetence from Albeig herself, which must have stung since she is a mistress of insulting the parts of a man he most hopes are without compare.
Even my mother laughed helplessly at Albeig’s rhymes, whenever the housekeeper was in a mood to give them.
Finally Astrid put her skirt over Bjorn’s shoulders as he went hands-and-knees upon the cold floor, and then the women let him be—except Ulfrica, who made a threatening motion with a heavy distaff each time she passed.
If a man intrudes upon noblewomen’s quarters he is made a footrest for his pains; not many dare or brook the loss of pride.
“White horses, like the Elder are said to have ridden.” My brother could finally give his news in a breathless jumble, shifting uneasily beneath Astrid’s skirt—which threatened to slide from his broad shoulders. “’Tis the boy and the wolf-ones. They have two extra mounts, too.”
“Ponies?” Arn brightened; she did like to ride. So far she seemed to consider this entire affair simply a pleasant jaunt, though I could not tell how much of her show of unconcern was meant to soothe my nerves.
Normally I was the one smoothing her sharp temper; she relied upon my wit as I relied upon her spear.
“Not ponies. Bigger. I do not know how they intend to feed such mounts in winter; they are but lightly equipped.” Bjorn glanced at me. “I also do not know who will carry your chest, Solveig.”
“They cannot expect me to come without a spare dress,” I pointed out, practically enough, and winced as Astrid tugged at my hair. She was applying many red coral beads in with quick expert motions; I would not go uncrowned. Indeed I suspected Dun Rithell’s entire stock of those lucky items was about to rest upon my braids. “How did Mother greet them?”
“With cup and bread.” My brother’s eyes were round. He pulled Astrid’s skirt higher over his shoulders, like a child seeking comfort. The maneuver showed her knitted stockings—a pair I had made myself, whispering words of comfort and grace into each row. “She knows their ritual words. The youth said her phrasing is fine.”
Well, my mother Gwendelint’s people were traditionalists and she had been educated by a seidhr in her youth, so naturally she would at least offer welcome and farewell in the Old Tongue. Those with the power also teach the lesser though commonly available magics of writing and figuring, especially in houses where some strain of Elder, however fictional, is held as a matter of pride. My mother’s bright gaze spoke of some such blood in our far past.
So does mine, though my eyes are winter sky to her deeper, richer summer.
“Just a few left.” Astrid moved slightly, her knee digging into Bjorn’s back. “I will put every single coral we have upon your head, Sol. They will not lead you into a bog.”
“It would be a waste of time for them to do so.” I held very still against Astrid’s pulling; she grows fierce near the end of hurried braids. “Unless their gods require it, in which case—”
“I may still challenge them.” Arn, in her most well-beloved and comfortable hauberk with a few extra layers underneath, finished shrugging into her plain dun hooded overmantle, one slim callused hand questing for spear-haft and closing upon it without needing her gaze for direction. “’Tis still an option, that is all I am saying.”
“May all the gods save us from that.” Ulfrica halted, bending swiftly to whisk a piece of straycloth from my fingers once I finished wiping. A hurried breakfast was congealing behind my breastbone; its traces were now gone from my lips. “Here, my lady. Your gloves; I shall have your mantle directly.”
“Cannot leave that behind.” Arn nodded, hopped on her boot-toes slightly to test the heft and fall of her armor; she settled upon her heels, satisfied. “And the undercloak, ’tis hanging right next to it.”
“I know.” With one last menacing movement toward a flinching Bjorn, her skirt fluttering, Ulfrica was gone. I had to hide a smile; I oft thought the sparks from rubbing against each other’s temper could well denote some affection on her part. Bjorn seemed oblivious, only bearing her ill treatment with oxlike patience. If her father’s hall were a little more advantageously placed Eril might have induced my brother to make some offer, but the son of Dun Rithell seemed only to see Ulfrica’s sharp tongue and not the girl behind it.
Of course, they knew each other from childhood; a familiar chair is never seen until it is missed, as the saying goes. And though she was sharp with him, she was likewise with a few other young warriors.
I would not be here to watch what happened as spring came, or to weigh different marriage offers and give my support to one or another. The thought sobered me, and suddenly departure was a fearful certainty instead of merely a looming maybe. “I suppose I shall see what you packed as we travel.” My neck ached, held at a precise angle so Astrid could finish her labors. “I mislike leaving my share of the sewing to you.”
“I put a few pieces in, so you may have summat to work upon in the cold North.” She turned slightly, still holding me as a hawk with its claws in prey. “Hand up a ribbon, Bjorn. No, not that one… not that one either. Yes, finally, thank you.” Astrid made a soft tch-tch. “They will no doubt give you cloth there, though.”
“Mh.” I could sew just as easily at home, and some part of me still expected them to demand half the roof-gilt at the last moment instead.
So often we will not face what is before us until we are absolutely forced to. It was, I realized that fogbound morn, fast becoming one of my habits. Idra would have dispensed a sharp tug upon one of my braids and a steadying admonition, but my teacher was in Hel’s country now, and probably glad of the rest after a lifetime spent in service.
That is another meaning to seidhr, and though there were others possessing the weirding in Dun Rithell I thought the community still might miss me. It seemed easier to think of their feelings than my own, especially when I embraced Astrid with an admonition to be good, and do not weep.
She disobeyed, promptly bursting into tears; afterward, in the hall outside the women’s quarters Bjorn enclosed me in a bear’s fierce silent hug. He said nothing, though his throat worked, and I knew he was sorry indeed.
“Comfort Astrid,” I told him. “And, by Odynn and every other god, my brother, keep your temper.”
He nodded, disheveled and morning-rumpled, his jaw set as ever Father’s was. So I left my siblings, with an eldest sister’s nagging. I did not tell them I loved them.
I hope they knew, but how I wish I could be certain.
The hurry and bustle of travel-readiness turned to a breathless hush when I entered the greathall in my green undermantle, my overboots laced securely for long travel and my hair braided with every red coral bead Dun Rithell had laboriously bargained for in riverside fairs. I was nervous as I had not been since my fourth summer, when Idra told my mother I had the weirding and would survive the training were it begun soon.
Arn was stiff-straight at my shoulder as I paused upon the entry steps, her spear’s blade—as long as her hand and forearm—glittering wickedly even in hornlight. My mother passed words with the Northerners, but I was too far away to hear.
At the moment, I was too busy keeping my fingers from knotting together. A volva must wear her bands proudly, a lord’s daughter meet her fate with chin high and shoulders straight. I did not like the idea of facing the Northerners without the stairs granting me some additional measure of height, but at least their group separated smoothly when I approached, Arn prowling alongside.
A breath of smoke clung to their black-clad forms. Later I learned they had built the pyre for their fallen companion down by the riverbank, and stood vigil beside it as well. They did not suffer any southroner to bring fuel, nor to keen at the flameside; straight from the warm embers they came to my father’s greathall.
I bent my head only to my mother, and when I looked up to her, tall and proud upon the second dais-step, the damp glitters upon her cheeks mocked us both. Gwendelint of Dun Rithell wore even her tears proudly, and silently dared any who would comment upon them to do so.
“Astrid tells me I am ready.” I held Mother’s gaze; she would not be shamed by her daughter before these men, or any other. “May I ask who among these gathered holds the pledge?” For a weregild is under some protection, from custom as well as gods, and woe to any who breaks it.
Or so the tales sing.
“My lord Eol.” Mother gestured; I half-turned to see the Northerner with the jeweled hilt step forward. He made the same gesture some of his rune-marked friends had, his knuckles to left chest, his lips, and last of all his bent forehead. “He bears the authority of Aenarian Greycloak, the high ruler of the North, and was nearest in kin to one who rides West.”
Riding West was an old-fashioned way to put it, but she could not very well say My son murdered another’s, and I am bearing this disaster as well as I may.
“Your daughter and her companion are under my personal protection, my lady Gwendelint.” Eol the Northerner’s cloak was dark and the fur lining upon it glossy black, though I could not tell what beast it was from. And though he was unused to the southron tongue, he handled it well enough. Any insult to the weregild would be a slight to his honor, and Northerners, like my own folk, have ever been quick to answer such things. “There is a fate to this.”
Mother regarded him almost balefully. “If there is, it had best end with my daughter returned. She is seidhr, my lord Eol, beloved of both your gods and ours.” There was a challenge to my mother’s tone, and her summersky gaze rested not upon the wolf-captain but the youth Aeredh.
“We may argue the names of the Vanyr and Aesyr for many a year and still reach no agreement.” The Northern boy’s clear tenor was pleasant enough. “The snow comes, fair lady.”
“Oh, aye.” Her eyes glittered; I had never heard my mother sound so bitter, especially to a guest so young. “And it falls more heavily upon us than upon your kind.”
I did not wonder at her words, for the Northerners were held to be long-lived, a blessing from the vanished Elder.
“Does it?” Aeredh sounded only mildly interested, though courteous enough. “One would think the opposite.”
I extended my hands, climbing the first stair of the dais; my mother clasped them. A susurration at the entryway was Astrid, peering in wide-eyed.
It would have been impolite for Bjorn to appear. We had already bid farewell, and I could still feel my brother’s rough embrace.
Besides, he was never one to speak when an action would serve. A hot stone lodged in my throat.
A slight cough dislodged it, and my voice was a trifle huskier than usual. “I mixed more of the ague recipe, though it will not hold its virtue past a moonturn; Astrid knows where ’tis in the stillroom.” I took a deep breath. My mother’s fingers were cold; mine were not only because I was swathed in cloth and the great hearth had been prodded into wakefulness hours before. “Do not go forth thinking you are cured until snowmelt is well past, Mother. I would not have such fine work undone.”
“I am supposed to chide you,” she said, and the glimmering water in her blue, blue eyes hurt mine. Sometimes, when younger, I had wondered if my mother saw everything about her tinted with sky-dye.
Do not weep, Solveig. You have not for years, do not start now. “I shall think of you scolding me every night before I sleep. Will that do?”
“Only if Arn gives you a clout to make you listen.” The last words caught upon a pained laugh, for my mother rarely ever had to raise voice or hand to me—not like Bjorn, who was endlessly, restlessly curious. So was I, but I learned to satisfy said curiosity discreetly, especially when my hapless brother could take the blame.
When thought of that way, ’twas only fair I was smoothing this wrinkle in the cloth now. “Do not give my small one ideas. You know how bloodthirsty she is.” I squeezed gently. When had my mother’s hands, so strong and sure, developed this faint tremor? Her fingers felt somewhat fragile in my palms, like birds charmed from a bracken or wide heather, trembling against the coaxing.
It is not right to wring the neck of a creature you lure thus; far better is the seidhr trick of letting the small thing fly free, returning to its business none the worse for wear.
“I will keep her safe, my lady.” Arneior accompanied the declaration with a soft tap of her spear’s blunt end upon the step, lending it gravity. “The Wingéd Ones are watching.”
My mother accepted the oath with a tremulous smile and kissed my forehead, having to bend far indeed to reach me upon the lower step. “Perhaps you will return taller, daughter mine.” Her smile cracked at the edges, so I stepped away as she straightened, smoothing my undermantle. Fine-woven green wool scratched comfortingly against my palms. “We shall have to make you a new cloak.”
“Of a certainty Arn will hunt something in the North to line it with.” I swallowed everything else I wished to say. “The sooner I go, the sooner I return. I shall dream of thee, Mother.”
“You must. Or I do not know how I will bear it.” She gestured again. “Go, my daughter.”
There must be no wailing at a leave-taking such as this, so I nodded, turned, and made it almost to the archway before whirling and running back to the steps, pushing past the Northerners. I climbed the dais in a rush and threw my arms about my mother, squeezing as hard as I dared while Arn glided behind me, her face set and her gaze dissuading the foreign men from making any comment.
Or moving closer.
My arms did not wish to loosen, but I forced them to. I wiped at my cheeks, met my mother’s gaze, and could find little else in my throat that had not already been said; thus it was Arneior and I left the greatest hall of Dun Rithell upon a morning of snowfog amid a deep hush, since nothing had thawed enough to drip.
Truth
I never returned.
Day Travel
Through the bones of the world the Elder Roads run, and those who step upon them must be wary.
—Maelsana the Swift of Dorael
I had hardly ever ridden a horse so high. The cream-colored Northern mare was sweet-tempered and clearly knew her business was to stay with her coevals; Arn’s, however, had a mischievous glint to her great sad eyes which promised trouble later. The dark-clad Northern men closed about us; I did not see where my trunk was. Still, I had my small, brightly embroidered seidhr-bag at my hip, the strap diagonal across the chest of my undermantle. Arn had her own baggage, much less than mine and easily added to her mount’s tack. Thick winterfog hid the road I had walked, run, ridden, or ambled along my entire life, making it a stranger, and I was startled when the standing stones at the east border of safe pasturage loomed wet and black around us.
It seemed far too soon to have reached them, but when clouds come to earth they maze and dizzy even the most experienced travelers.
One of the riders muttered summat about ill luck in the Northern tongue, and I suppressed another start. They spoke the old language daily, it seemed; I decided to listen hard, adding to my store of it—and to make no sign I understood, for we were two women among a group of foreign men.
It is wise to keep every advantage one may need later, and in any case I did not feel like speaking overmuch to warriors who counted as kin a man my brother had killed.
I did keep my hood high, taking comfort in its warmth. I also whispered to the stones, wishing them a pleasant day as anyone who desires to pass such things without malediction or ill luck is well advised to. The fluttering in my bones—soft wings like my mother’s trembling after a seidhr draught eased her ague—intensified just short of pain in the center of their cold, silent ring, and drained away as the horses plodded onward.
The one they called Eol rode to my left; the youth Aeredh might have wished to take my right but Arn was there, and while her mare might have a bit of spirit upon a clear day she was more than happy to let a shieldmaid make the decisions in this baffling, almost salt-smelling cold. Eol had wrapped his hilt, but I knew where the colorless gem was and sometimes thought I discerned a stray spark from it as the fog thickened.
That weapon, I thought, probably has a name.
Had they not been grim Northerners, perhaps they would have tried to make some manner of conversation. Instead, the dark-clad men rode in what I recognized as a guard-pattern, having seen warriors take such positions around my father more than once. Arn rode with her bright coppery head hooded and down, but I knew better than to think her unaware.
The fog brightened, new-risen sun warming its upper layers. Surely it was not bad to feel a slight thrill of accomplishment—even if the bonfire did not truly make the great light of the sky return, there was still some satisfaction in performing the ritual to make absolutely certain of the world’s continuance.
And I had behaved as a lord’s daughter and a volva during the following disaster; none could say I had not. Though a tongue or two might wag, saying a true seidhr would have foreseen and forestalled Bjorn’s action or its consequence—but who can tell, as Idra oft remarked, if we do not avert greater tragedies by the occurrence of smaller ones? Perhaps, she would sometimes add, everything during a life is the least of many evils.
Only the Allmother knows for certain.
